


unfinished angel

by plumii



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 05:54:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29554515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumii/pseuds/plumii
Summary: Hands burst openYellow promises in red light districtsYou met an angel(Did you?)
Relationships: Kita Shinsuke/Suna Rintarou
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	unfinished angel

**Author's Note:**

> Disturbing, maybe, but in the sense that it's really weird. Basically my take on surrealist writing. 2nd person POV for the majority.

_Hands burst open_

_Yellow promises in red light districts_

_You met an angel_

_(Did you?)_

* * *

It’s an empty mall, neon storefronts blinking and fizzled out. There’s the carcass of a food court, plastic chairs and plastic tables an artificial green. The No-Trespassing sign tilts sideways, a cavity ripped into the section of chain link fence below. 

“Look up.”

(You do. How could you not, when he’s looking like a king, sounding like a king. The shoe planted between your leg is a declaration; half threat, half promise.)

“Will you tell me your truth?” White hair, white like a swan’s wing. Black hair, black like water, impossibly deep. The angler teeth never show, never reveal themselves from behind that beautiful smile. He is kind.

“I love you.”

Kita tilts his head and disappears. The name of a clothing store flickers, mannequins contorted and headless. They’re reaching in.

* * *

_Eyes set against train walls_

_Between here and home_

_Watch you take the fall_

_They were never just brown_

* * *

“Please,” you say, this time.

_Please what?_

The city touches the sky, in perhaps the crudest manner there is. Concrete stacks cast shadows on the streets, cutting the undulating crowd below into sectors like a knife. Taxicabs slide through nearly-red lights in the rain, and the yellow mellows out into something a little more like the grey of everything else.

“The city hall, the city hall,” a girl tugs on your arm. Her hair would’ve been a bright orange. She looks like summer, trapped in a jar and dropped in a snowstorm. 

“What’s your name?”

She sees through you. The syllables form in her mouth, little bubbles of silence. Eyes flash in alarm. _No_ , she shakes her head. _No._

Summer, then. Or Red.

“The city hall,” she says. “The city hall.” When the bus comes, she faces you like she has something to say. When the bus goes, there are no little girls, summer or red or otherwise.

The city hall is a long way from here. The metro ticket will take you there, but no further. One way, one way. There are so many people, so many trains. There is so little noise. The turnstile rotates like a wheel around a square axle when you swipe through. The map on the side wall under the station name looks like a spiderweb, routes weaving in knots on the page. They all converge, though, meeting at the same place. CITY HALL, front and center.

The trains are just full enough. People sitting straight against the backs of their seats. People standing in a neat row, right hand to the handles dangling from the bar overhead. You slide in place, no more and no less. 

A mournful beep rings through the body of the subway, a smooth voice announcing their arrival. _Next stop: City hall_. She sounds a little too beautiful to be human. 

(But then again, there are many things too beautiful to be human.)

There are a set of stone lions set at either side of the entryway, a halfhearted nod to the elegance that had been before concrete and metal and apathy latched onto the city like a strangling fig and smothered it all.

A woman flounces out the door, dressed austerely in a black coat that wraps tight around her neck and waist. The tinted glasses perched on her nose are either a fashion statement or a means to hide her identity, given the sunless weather. At her side, a blonde attendant rattles off numbers from a document resting on her arm. The rest of the entourage follow, marching in tandem like they were programmed to. One of them looks over his shoulder. His eyes are brown.

But then a car’s headlights fan across his face and they flash gold. A deep breath, and your mouth forming a name— 

* * *

_And all of time’s mercy_

_Cannot change the fact_

_That the millimeters between fingers_

_Are miles between hearts_

* * *

This time, Kita is a child, lacing and unlacing his fingers at the base of the blue slide. He doesn’t smile, because there is no one to smile for. 

“Why are you here all alone?”

He looks up, and his eyes are impossibly large. His hands splay against plastic. “I don’t know. You’re the one who knows.”

The light from overhead is old and tinted, and your hands look jaundiced against their shadows on the floor. Nothing comes to mind, except that maybe he’s an angel in disguise and this is a test of sorts. “Would you like me to keep you company?”

Two pale hands clasp and unclasp. “Okay. Play on the monkey bars with me.”

You’re head and shoulders above the monkey bars. There’s a thin layer of dust and grime, from what looks like years of disuse. The Kita in front of you seems like he would shatter if he were to fall even from that meagre height.

“Okay.”

Kita does not smile, but the corners of his mouth curve. 

* * *

_Maybe it was the_

_Unfinished angel who did not_

_Want to be found_

_Maybe it was you_

* * *

The walls blend in with the surface layer of his hair, dye job even whiter under the greenish fluorescents. He sets a plastic bag at your end table. In red on the side, it says _THANK YOU. THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU._ The smell of greasy takeout wafts through the air. 

“Thank you, Kita.” _Thank you, thank you, thank you._ “But is there a chance you got some jellies?”

Kita smothers a laugh behind his hand. “I knew you would ask for them. Don’t eat too many or you’ll spoil your lunch.”

They scatter across the table like fat plastic jewels. “I know.”

“You’ve gotten skinny.”

Have you? “Have I?” Time passes like water through a sieve. The window is still sealed shut, blinds coating the entirety of it. All you’ve been doing is staring at the wall, squinting until you can make out a pair of eyes burning through them.

“Yeah, you have. Take care of yourself.” Against his words, though, Kita produces a lighter from his pocket and a pack of cigarettes, offering them both to you. He does not take one for himself, simply watches the curls of smoke in the air. 

(The silence is roaring, but not unpleasant.)

“Do you regret it?”

You swallow. The truth is always the most painful. “Yes.”

“You shouldn’t.” Kita reaches under the bed, pulling out a wooden box. The sides of it are scratched and chipped with age and use, and there’s an opened lock dangling from it. The key burns from its place around your neck. Kita’s eyes flash, but he does not open it. He is kind. 

“Who needs memories, anyways?”

The words sound odd on his tongue. Perhaps it was the angler mouth who had said it. 

You don’t say a word as he brings the lighter to the corner of the box, watches it ignite in his hands. A much thicker smoke forces its way back into your lungs, mingles with the hazy air on its way out. The ash tastes sweet between your teeth. 

Those beautiful hands should never be burnt black.

* * *

_Maybe your angel never existed at all_

* * *

The light threading through the gaps in the blinders burns Suna’s eyes, and he squeezes them shut even tighter. The throbbing in his temples is even worse this time than usual, and he grapples for a water bottle. His fingers curl around one, half empty, at the foot of his end table and he downs the whole thing at once. 

His hands only shake a little when he pulls out the wooden box underneath the bedframe and unlocks it. The pictures, letters, everything are still there. Some of them have gashes and holes scratched into them, broken mosaics. Some of them have simply a black line across a pair of eyes. Suna never looks at them for long, anymore. 

Somewhere within the mess of blankets over his legs, his phone vibrates. Caller ID, _The Lesser Miya(Atsumu :P)_. He watches the screen for a few more moments, waits until the buzzing stops. 

“I’ll call him later,” he says to the empty room. It sounds fake even to his own ears, as he slides another pill into his mouth. 

**Author's Note:**

> No beta we die like men. Just a fun little timed write


End file.
